The single hint of color is the van, a subdued maroon breaking up the somber Gothic morning even through its coat of dust mud. Otherwise in this freshly thawed December world nature's only movement is a misty drizzle. The fog has lifted just enough to reveal the stone-still tops of the tallest oaks.
I should move the van from my window sight line, regress to a simpler time, and embark on a Gothic novel. Or see if I can find a nice Vincent Price film on the teevee.
Or write one of those dreary poems as the English used to like.
Hard by the steel mirror of sylvan lake it came,
Black as a the grave of its day's destiny.
And staccato on the ancients cobbles
A team of four, heads low, no bells to cheer their harness,
Bred for rue...
Aw, the Hell with it. When it's this dreary only a bacon sandwich will get me moving.
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